


What About Molly?

by CharleyFoxtrot



Series: Talented People With Interesting Skillsets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, F/F, Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-s3, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 23:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6446905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharleyFoxtrot/pseuds/CharleyFoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John lets down his shields a bit and discovers a new talent -- one that leads him to St. Bart's morgue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What About Molly?

They -- Sherlock and John -- had been married mere two months before they ran out of pressure tape again. Sherlock had an annoying habit of accruing injuries, especially as they began to actually branch out into _paid_ work (deductive or psychic, although they didn’t exactly broadcast the psychic part, at least -- not _verbally_ ).

While Mycroft hadn’t approached them again to see if they were interested in working for his little psychic R&D program, John got the feeling that the man was keeping a close eye on them. And so it was in John’s best interest to keep a fully-stocked medical kit at Baker Street; keeping his husband out of A&E as much as humanly possible meant that the elder Holmes had few legitimate reasons to visit the flat.

John Watson-Holmes had the best-stocked home pharmaecopeia in all of London, although he took care to stash the more addictive painkillers somewhere he doubted Sherlock would ever look -- amongst Mrs. Hudson’s odds and ends in the attic, buried inside the canister of laundry detergent because Sherlock got his things dry-cleaned and John was the only one who used the washer, and inside a hollowed-out brick on the roof. He had very nearly a full surgery’s supplies, squirrelled away or purchased illicitly or, in one particularly memorable case, as payment for their psychic abilities. Scalpels, medical scissors so strong they could cut bone, a small portable defibrillator, an IV unit -- all this and more could be found _somewhere_ within 221 Baker Street.

John _really_ hoped that Mrs. Hudson never found the defibrillator, which he’d hidden in 221A, or the scalpel kit, which he had shoved under her couch cushions. The syringes and needles he kept hidden along with the painkillers. Just in case.

That said, the thing they ran out of the most was pressure tape, of the crepe style. John liked to keep a variety of widths throughout the house, because it was so useful. He had to pick up a variety of gauze sizes when he got the tape, too, but those were easy. Pressure tape he had to wheedle out of Stamford, as it wasn’t commonly available -- if he thought the hospital would sell him the stuff, he’d do so, because he was _willing_ , but alas.

So it happened that Tuesday afternoon, with Sherlock off investigating some boring solo case and keeping up a running commentary in John’s mind so that he could rest easy, John found himself taking the Tube toward St. Bart’s. He still mistrusted taxis, all these years later, and wondered at Sherlock’s insistence on them.

After successfully procuring a lot of pressure tape and whistling to himself about it, John very suddenly felt the presence of another psychic in the building.

It wasn’t that the parapsychic were a different species of human -- not true in the _slightest_. As far as he could tell, they simply had a genetic aberration, or mutation, that gave them a specific aptitude. Some psychics never stumbled across their gifts, and never had a chance to use them. People like John, who were _very_ powerful, honed them in the way that an athlete might, practicing daily and slowly increasing their abilities.

John was also, by default, one of the leading researchers on the lives and abilities of _actual_ psychic people, because he was one of the few who believed it was a real phenomenon. The scientific community was being leaked -- slowly -- research that proved otherwise, although John had discovered that an EEG machine, attached the head of a psychic, could show when said psychic was using their particular talents and thought that proved it well enough. Either way, within a few years, the scientific community would _lose its mind_.

He’d surrounded himself with psychics -- Sherlock, his husband, was a clairvoyant, a finder of things; Greg Lestrade, formerly their employer and currently their roommate, was a receiving empath. Sally Donovan -- Watson now, he _needed_ to remember that before Harry clocked him good -- was a frequent visitor at the flat and now his sister-in-law, and had, to borrow the American phrase, _seen some shit_ with the other three last year when they’d taken an assignment from Mycroft in Afghanistan.

Not to mention that he knew a great deal of the London-based parapsychic community because of his private and very, _very_ secret research in that area.

So it wasn’t that John was particularly sensitive to other psychics, it’s just that he knew the flavor of a psychic mind. He could tell when someone could hear him innately rather than forcing his way in, much like some people could just _tell_ when someone spoke their language.

Smiling at a nurse, who was staring at him, because he’d stopped in the middle of the hallway to adjust to the new feeling, John continued walking, this time following the psychic.

To his surprise, it led him to the basements. And then to the morgue.

After Afghanistan, John had lowered his shields somewhat; he wasn’t under threat of constant attack, like had been in his various tours of Afghanistan (both pre- and post- military career), and had discovered that it allowed him a greater sensitivity to other people; he hadn’t ever been able to find a shield that could block out the torrent of other people’s thoughts, but he could _tell_ things with the lessened shields. Things people didn’t think about, or didn’t know about -- things like undiagnosed cancer in a patient, or sexual aberrations, or whether a person was psychic.

The shield had previously blocked that ability, which he theorized was a byproduct of practicing and strengthening his own telepathy. Just last week, Sherlock had taken a case which required him to travel to New Zealand, the closest thing Britain had to an antipode that existed on a landmass, and with some effort and leaning on the gestalt generator that was quietly ensconced on the rooftop 221 Baker Street, John had been able to talk to his bond-mate. Across the globe. Instantaneously, and without the aid of any electronics.

So if new side-effects were presenting themselves, John was interested in discovering what lay behind them. He followed the mind, which was moving throughout the morgue --

And he was completely unsurprised to discover himself face-to-face with Molly Hooper.

He hadn’t actually physically seen Molly since his and Sherlock’s wedding, during which he’d been rather distracted. He’d been told that she was also in attendance at Harry and Sally’s wedding, but that had been right after he’d taken his shields down and the psychic overload had overwhelmed him somewhat, forcing them to make an early night of it. And then, well --

Then he’d found out about Steve.

Actually, that was the last time he’d seen Mycroft, too.

Molly was staring at him, almost terrified. “John. Is -- does Sherlock need anything?”

“Oh. Oh, no, I was just picking up pressure wraps,” and John held up the bag, bulging but nondescript, the kind of bag he might take to a gym. He squinted at her.

“Then - um. Why are you here?” Molly looked exceptionally nervous, and in fact had looked rather nervous around him, ever since she’d helped Sherlock fake his own death. He’d never really got a clear explanation about that, actually, and he wondered if he should ask Sherlock tonight. Usually, Sherlock liked to brag about his well-thought-out advanced-plans, but he hadn’t heard much about that particular one. Perhaps Sherlock thought it would upset him, or perhaps he had a reason -- perhaps he hadn’t wanted to out Molly Hooper.

“Well, funny thing,” John said, pulling up a seat and setting his bag on an empty autopsy table. “See, I have some pretty strong shields and I started deconstructing them, just a little bit, not too terribly long ago. And now, suddenly --”

 _I can sort of tell when people are psychic_ , he finished, in her head.

Molly gasped.

He smiled at her.

“I don’t wish to talk about this here,” Molly said, spine straightening. She stared at him. “Anyone might hear.”

 _Even when we can have an entire conversation in our heads?_ he asked.

She looked exasperated and came closer, pulling him out of his chair, to the side and away from the door’s view, before hissing, “I can’t talk _back_ , John. I can only pull things from people’s minds, and usually only if they’re _directing_ it at me.”

John raised his eyebrow. In theory, he knew about telepaths that could only receive, couldn’t send; as far as he could tell, it was due to some sort of psychic trauma or block, but he supposed it could also occur naturally.

 _Been that way forever, has it?_ he asked, continuing to talk telepathically, just in case someone did try to make sense out of half a conversation.

“No, no -- _Really_. I don’t wish to discuss this here,” she whispered, glancing around her. John understood; Molly had met Mycroft Holmes before, after all. One never knew when they were being surveilled.

He smiled broadly, then, and clapped her on the shoulder.

“Come by Baker Street after work, Molly,” he said, genially, walking toward his bag. “It’s Tuesday. Sally always comes by, and we can talk in the clear there.”

She stood upright from her hunched-over position. “Why should I?” she demanded. This was less like the Molly Hooper that John knew than any other version of herself she’d ever portrayed, and John wondered if perhaps this was closer to the real her. A large part of him hoped it was true.

 _Because you_ , he said, telepathically, as he gathered his bag and left the morgue, _are in good company._

Molly, he thought, would be an excellent addition to the team.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little shortie. I had never intended to revisit this universe -- I'm quite proud of Crazy Men With Guns but desperately want to rewrite J.B. Rhine Was Kind of a Dick because it's so bad, writing-wise. Because of that, I really didn't ever intend to come back here to play.
> 
> Plus, I'm not...really in the Sherlock fandom anymore.
> 
> But I quite like the idea of Molly getting integrated into the group. I quite like Molly, actually, and had always been annoyed that more opportunities to portray her hadn't cropped up in the original two fics, so: Molly! I might add some more little ficlets that include her, or I might not. Don't get your hopes up; I'm in the middle of writing a massive Supernatural fanfic and then I intend to work on some original stuff for the rest of the year.
> 
> But who knows? Inspiration crops up at the weirdest times.


End file.
